#event02.

‘i’m not here to clean up everyone’s shit.’ or maybe: ‘damn it, the sanctum owes me a raise.’ these are the thoughts she wants to vocalise. instead, she grumbles, “if you’d like to learn about the various and abundant effects of alcohol on your body, i’d be happy to give you a tour or a refresher.” she doesn’t know yet if the other is actually intoxicated, but she’s seen the other untouchables wildly drunk so often and it tires her, as the medical expert who’s bound to make them not die from too much liquor. she’s not going to put up with that in sweden.

“ANGEL! ANGEL!” milai says, trying not to pant and sound shaken (not very successfully). she’s just been to the massage area of the manor’s spa, an early bird to her scheduled hang-out with angel (because she doesn’t have much else to do, although she won’t admit that she has “no life” by new york elite standards). “i know i should’ve expected this, but i can’t believe they actually do that.... they... they make you take off your clothes and then knead your body like you’re bread? they claim the practice produces ‘endorphins’ but i’m not feeling those endorphins right now. there isn’t any real empirical evidence that massage therapy helps with musculoskeletal pain anyway! let’s go somewhere else,” she requests, “please.” || @angelharrison​.